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HE POET MAN 
ET CETERA 



THE POET MAN 
ET CETERA 




ELON ALLAN RICHARDS 



w 



1913 



PUBLISHED BY 

TRADESMAN COMPANY 

GRAN D RAPI DS 
MICH, 






Copyright, 1913, by 
Elon Allan Richards 



©CI.A;!47526 




/^^c>~i-^^^ 



DEDICATED 

TO 

All Who Still Have the Natural 

Child Love for Rhyme 

AND Verse 



CONTENTS 



Page 

Prologue 12 

The Poet Man 15 

Playing Marbles 17 

The Lure of the Woods 19 

Wlien the Leaves Begin to Turn 23 

My Dad 26 

What's In a Rose 28 

Undue Ambition 29 

It Might Have Done in Father's Time ... 31 

Retrospection 33 

Come, Jump Aboard 35 

Catastrophe 36 

A Bachelor's Puzzle 37 

Mother 39 

Two Months 'Til Spring 40 

Dreams 42 

Vacation Time 44 

Triplets 45 

The Smile and the Rose 46 

Could Granite Speak 47 

Friday, the 13th Day 49 

Dollie 51 

A Smile 52 

Nature 55 

Jim Englishman 56 

The Cemetery 59 

Found 61 

The Awakening 62 

Why 66 

9 



CONTENTS (Concluded) 

Page 

The Chilkoot Slide 68 

Ah Yes 73 

I.e Miserere 74 

Arkansas Flats 77 

Hope and Work 80 

The Great Out O' Doors 83 

Joe Carbaugh of Arkansas 85 

Lonesome 89 

Bill Glines 91 

Frederick 95 

^Vlly Worry 98 

The Auto 99 

On An Auto Run 100 

Ever Git Skeared 103 

An Infliction 104 

A Sunny March Morn 107 

Under Wrong- Impression 108 

Why Do I Sigh 109 

The Seasons 110 

My Dream Girl Ill 

A Peculiar Business 113 

The Land of Make-Believe 115 

Epilogue 117 



10 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



Page 

Author's Portrait . 6 ^ 

The Lure of the Wood 14 \ 

When the Leaves Begin to Turn 22 ^ 

Triplets 45 

Nature 54 v' 

The Chilkoot Slide 71^' 

The Great Out O' Doors 82 '^ 

Frederick 94 "^ 



11 



PROLOGUE 

There is no excuse for this Publication, 
consequently no apology. 
Life with many is a joke and a continuous 
Performance — others take life seriously 
(not meaning to cast reflection upon our 
eminent Practitioners of Medicine) and in 
offering to a long suffering public a new- 
booklet, I feel called upon to acknowledge 
that there are grounds for taking life 
seriously — and that is no joke. 



THE POET MAN* 

Who is that fellow with flowing hair^ 

With vacuous eyes and vacant stare, 

Who lounges around with dreamy eyes 

And to look inspired quite vainly tries ? 

Who sings to you of skies of blue, 

And common place things you know are true. 

And rhapsodizes as none other can, 

Why, don't you know? He's the poet man. 

Who with languid air is lost in thought, 

While his mind is roaming for a rhyme he sought 

Then traces a line or two or more 

Of a rythmic- soulful, impassioned lore ? 

And all aglow, his face will show. 

An inspiration only 'born' poets know, 

And feels perhaps what no other can. 

The lure of imag'ry of the poet man. 

Who lies at ease with Homeresque smile. 
And reels off yards of verses vile. 
While foolish wives enchanted rave. 
And husbands wish him in his grave ? 
Who quaffs the wine and in honeyed rhyme 
Praises the hostess for viands fine, 
But never reciprocates for eggs and ham. 
Who, don't you know? 'Tis the poet man. 

Who lives alone in a gloomy room. 
Four floors above a Dutch saloon. 
And twice a day drops in to munch 
The petrified pretzels of the Dutchman's lunch ? 
And who, pray tell, always looks so well, 
Appears in full dress like a Beau Brummel, 
And juggles a monocle as no other can, 
Who, don't you know? 'Tis the poet man. 

Who never has met with one of this tribe, 
Who couldn't spare time to quaff or imbibe 
Distillate of the grape in sparkle and chill 
With capacity and longing that is hard to fill? 

15 



Who raced Avith the host but was left at the post 
And could never win anything but a roast- 
Though he started the race way up in the van. 
Who. don't you know? 'Twas the poet man. 

Who sits by the window of his room. 
Surrounded, submerged in deepest gloom. 
Vainly trying to cultivate the Muse. 
Who rebels at a continuance of his abuse? 
But tliought divine, that comes in time. 
And he secures a copy of Reiser's rhyme. 
And becomes a plagiarist once again. 
Who. don't you know? 'Tis the poet man. 

Who tries to market titbits of brain. 
And warps his cerebrum by the strain. 
Wastes countless reams of lirst rate bond. 
Trying to make the Muse respond? 
And who will then, to the editor's den 
Consign the manuscript from his pen. 
And get as before a cold, hard slam. 
Who. don't you know? 'Tis the poet man. 

There are of course the favored ones. 
Mighty fine fellows and favorite sons. 
Who ran the race quite slow and shyly. 
Like our Hoosier friend. J. Whitcomb Riley. 
And victory's sweet, the winner fleet. 
The slow one can only expect defeat. 
But 'Here's to the Unknown' who also ran. 
Who. don't vou know? The Poet Man. 



PLAYING MARBLES* 

Tell me please a sign that's true, 

To show that Spring is near. 
The usual signs I leave to you 

Are as foolish as they are queer. 
But tell me now if there can be, 

A sign as sure as the belief is sweet, 
That Spring is near when you can see 

Youngsters playing marbles on the street. 

The bright sunshine is not a sign, 

For storm clouds soon obscure the Sun. 
Snow may be falling by the time 

This very day is done. 
The winds may shift a dozen ways, 

Pelt your face with snow or sleet. 
But there's a sign that's good these days. 

When youngsters play marbles on the street. 

The Ground Hog sign oft is untrue, 

Or the Robin may return too soon. 
And then great reason has to rue 

His early rush to a northland doom. 
The Lilac bush may bud and blow. 

And spread afar its fragrance sweet, 
But this sign of Spring is true, I know, 

When youngsters play marbles on the street. 

Well, let the March wind groan and howl. 

And snow pile up in drifts. 
There is no reason to moan and growl. 

For a INIarch wind quickly shifts. 
And a sign may or may not come true, 

Though there's one I'm glad to greet, 
An old, old sign, yet ever new. 

When youngsters play marbles on the street. 

When plow horses shrink 'neath collar galls, 
And the farmer discards his felts, 

When boys hunt out the water falls, 
And anxiously fish for smelts. 

17 



When the sheep owner says, '"Tis shearing time' 
And the sunshine yields some heat, 

But best of all is the certain sign, 

When youngsters play marbles on the street. 

When noisy groups of hap})y boys, 

Seek a spot of ground that's bare, 
And in playing marbles then enjoys, 

A happiness, wholly free from care. 
And as we watch them at their play, 

We see a sign that can't be beat, 
A sign that Spring's not far away, 

When youngsters play marbles on the street. 



18 



THE LURE OF THE WOOD* 

Did you ever have the feelin'^ 

A great longin' or desire^ 
To hike for streams a'gleamin/ 

When the Sun is a ball of fire? 
When the Meadow lark is singin', 

And the willows softly swish^ 
Don't it set your mind to longin'^ 

Just to get away — and fish? 

When the grass is high and wavin', 

And the lowlands cool and green^, 
Just sets your soul to ravin'^ 

And you close your eyes and dream ; 
You can hear the birds a'callin'^ 

Hear the ripple of the brook^ 
Almost see the fish a'nibblin', 

Just a'jumpin' for the hook. 

You can see the sunshine flashin', 

The streams dart shimmers of gold ; 
You can hear the water dashin'. 

The same as in times of old; 
You can hear the lone duck wingin', 

Hear the flappin' of its wings, 
Hear the Catbird weirdly singin', 

In its flightly meanderings. 

See the sand beach so invitin'^ 

Stretchin' clear around the bend ; 
The steep bank, where you dove in, 

And the paths you used to wend ; 
See the lone pine over-hangin', 

Where the pool is its deepest blue; 
Where the bass awaits your comin', 

And all nature yearns for you. 

Where the boat tugs at its moorin' 
And oars dangle in the locks, 

Don't it set your mind to soarin', 

To the woods and streams and rocks? 



19 



Where the bait can, just aAvaitin', 

While tlie worms wiggle in and out; 

And the liook awaits it baitin'. 
While fish dart 'round about. 

Can't you see the trees a'wavin'. 

Beck'ning you to come and stay? 
While nature has been savin' 

All her sweetness, day by day ; 
While the streams are yet a'callin', 

And birds echo back the cry, 
Come, Oh. Come, ere snows are fallin' 

And all Summer Beauties die. 



20 



WHEN THE LEAVES BEGIN TO TURN, 

When Summer's swirl of dust and heat 

Makes you long for cooling showers, 
For slanting sun-light, so replete 

With all the gorgeousness of flowers; 
You wish for a sweet and pelting rain, 

And in your thought, intensely yearn. 
For Autumn's coming, once again 

When the leaves begin to turn. 

When a stinging frost with frigid smile, 

As heartless as a block of stone, 
Deals to Summer a blow so vile 

That she expires with a weary moan; 
Then Autumn fills all vacant spaces. 

With a grace you then discern. 
Spreading her beauty in countless places 

When the leaves begin to turn. 

When the geese are southward flying, 

And their cries ring on the air. 
Are far aloft all energy plying 

Winging toward the southland fair; 
Birds and fowl migrate together, 

In the southland to sojourn. 
In the Marsh and Brake and Heather, 

When the leaves begin to turn. 

When the odor, sweet and subtle. 

Floats from hay-stacks in the field. 
And the wheat-stacks in the stubble. 

Plainly tell of an enormous yield; 
When the tassel on the corn-top 

To a glorious brown will turn. 
Summer ends with a sudden stop 

When the leaves begin to turn. 

23 



When a squirrel glides 'long the fences, 

Hunting nuts upon the ground. 
Laying up store, ere winter commences 

To pile up snow-drifts all around ; 
When his mate barks joyous greeting, 

Shrill as crackle of frosted fern, 
Then you realize, 'time is fleeting' 

Wlien the leaves beo-in to turn. 



When the pumpkin is golden yellow. 

And the squash blossom's blown away, 
When the harvest apple is mellow, 

And the skies seem strangeU^ gray ; 
When the Sun is late in appearing 

And early sun-sets gloriously burn, 
Then you know that Fall is nearing. 

When the leaves begin to turn. 

When the Oak grubs in the wildwood, 

Take on beauty in a single night. 
You doubt if all nature could. 

Improve on such a glorious sight. 
Red and green and orange yellow, 

Bank the hill-sides, in leaf and fern. 
Line the edge of the neglected fallow. 

When the leaves begin to turn. 

When Dame Nature blends her colors 

On the Palette of the breeze, 
To tints as soft as fur of Otters' 

Soft as the hum of honey bees ; 
Applies them with no small emotion. 

For her soul doth ever yearn, 
To apply her skill, a beauty lotion 

When the leaves begin to turn. 



When the grape vine branches tangle, 

In the arbor hanging dense, 
Purple clusters at every angle, 

Deliglitful both to taste and sense. 
Prime for table or tlie wine press. 

Exquisite joy that none could spurn, 
'Tis sim{)ly Autumn's sweet caress. 

When the leaves begin to turn. 



24 



Season of beauty^ joy and gladness, 

Time of sunshine, breeze and shower, 
Colors blend with riotous madness, 

With earth a veritable beauty bower. 
Autumn leaves and Autumn fancies, 

Annually come and go and return ; 
And shower a million happy glances. 

When the leaves begin to turn. 



25 



MY DAD. 

Wlien Dad gits home on a winter's night, 

An snow is deep and drifted so, 
I cuddle up in his arms, so tight, 

An tease fer stories I long to know. 
An he tells 'um over and over again, 

The bestes stories, gee, that ever was told, 
'Bout Hobson and the bravest men, 

I'm goin to be like 'um when I'm old. 

An Jack and the Beanstalk, and Gee, Whiz, 

It jus makes me open up my eyes, 
An Bluebeard, an my hair jus riz, 

I was so skeared fer all his wives. 
An Mother Hubbard, oh I love her so. 

An once I almost could have cried, 
Fer her Doggie was hungry and I know 

He jus a'laid right down and died. 

An he told me of a Fairy too. 

And the wand she had all the time. 
With a star on the end a'shinin' blue, 

An I wisli one of tliem was mine. 
Fer Fairy's who has one of 'um. 

Gits everything tliat they wish. 
An they kin fly er walk er run 

Er swim es good es any fish. 

Black Beauty too, gee, that was fine. 

An I'd like a horse like tliat, 
I liope to be Fairy sometime, 

En I'll git one quicker'n scat. 
I'd wish for a brother, yes, I would, 

'Cause 'taint no fun to play 
All 'lone, and then a Fairy could 

Git a brotlier 'most any day. 

I'd wisli fer Dad to stay to home. 
And never, never 'gan go 'way, 

An fer Mama never to leave me 'lone, 
When I'm in bed all night to stay. 

26 



Fer there's a Goblin hangin' 'round, 

I see it jus tli other night. 
It jumped from th closet with a bound, 

Then jus dove right out a' sight. 

Then, I'd close my eyes fer a little spell 

Dad'd stop — an then I'd say; 
"What's that'n, 'bout old William Tell," 

An then he'd laugh and talk away. 
I'd tease fer Little Red Ridinghood, 

Little Lame Prince an Hollow Tree, 
An Dad, he's jus so awful good, 

Tellin' stories when I cuddle on his knee. 

Then, other nights when all is -still. 

He'll grab me up and begin to play. 
An pull a chair we couldn't fill. 

To th fire-place, right away. 
An then I'd say: "Tell a story, do. 

The Night Before Christmas, Pa" 
An Dad, he'd tell th story true, 

Sittin 'lone, with just me and Ma. 

An Cinderella an Teddy Bear, 

Mother Goose and th Brownies too. 
Gee, if 'twas late, I didn't care. 

How late it got, would you? 
He'd tell of Peter an John an James, 

(I liked th fisher man th most) 
An fellers with th funniest names. 

An somethin' 'bout a Holy Ghost. 

I liked Brer Rabbit purty well, 

An Arabian Nights, it too was fine. 
Uncle Tom an Eva; an he'd tell, 

'Bout Liza on th ice in th freshet time. 
He's good, is Dad, fer when my head 

Falls lopsy on th buzum of his vest. 
He carries me quickly up t' bed 

An there I stretch and grow and rest. 



WHATS IN A ROSE? 

What's in a Rose? 
Just a bit of color; 
Just a fragrance rare; 
Just the soft red petal; 
Just the beauty fair; 
Just a kind remembrance; 
Just keeping a mem'ry green; 
Just a friendly reminder 

Of some old time dream. 

What's in a Rose? 
Just beauty to the artist ; 
Just perfume to the home; 
Just perfection to the sweetheart; 
Just companionship when alone. 
Just a token of friendship; 
Just an emblem sweet ; 
Just a dear^ mute message 

Carrying happiness complete. 

What's in a Rose? 
Just a bit of sentiment; 
Just for friends alive; 
Just a happy memento ; 
Just making Paradise. 
Just a bit of heartache; 
Just a bit of pain; 
Just a bit of sunshine 

After darkness and the rain. 

What's in a Rose? 
Just everything in beauty; 
Just perfection of sweetness too ; 
Just loveliness entrancing; 
Just liappiness for you; 
Just love, true, unassuming; 
Just ha})piness, so rare; 
Just all tliat's worth the keeping 

Is found in tlie Rose so Fair. 



28 



UNDUE AMBITION. 

Most men have a callings 

Have aspirations appalling, 

And will study and strive to attain tlit 

end they seek; 
But they find many others falling, 
With an abruptness so galling. 
That a sensitive Ambition finds its 

energies too weak. 

Why this everlasting tussle? 

Continual and awful hustle, 

For position and fame that is far 

beyond our reach; 
Why this hopeless, endless worry, 
This insane and senseless hurry? 
For thus we waste our lives — then let 

others fill the breach. 

Is art mad, or fame enamoured? 

Sculptor — Painter — Poet clamored 

Just for a glimpse of the Sprite he 

longingly desired; 
But with heart very nearly famished. 
His hopes will soon have vanished. 
Leaving him but the dream of Fame, 

another had acquired. 

Thus ambition, free, unhampered, 
Drives the sturdy and the pampered. 
With a whip-hand driving as strong 

as it is cruel; 
Wastes fine metal in madness. 
Ends noble lives in sadness. 
And graves soon are excavated with 

Ambition, the tool. 



29 



Fortune can but little matter, 

Fame is but a little better, 

When Ambitions are won at expense of 

health and life ; 
And a fortune of many millions 
The temptation of all civilians, 
Could not make one happier but would 

cause you added strife. 

Why not learn to live sedately. 

Adding to your blessings greatly, 

By dividing up the days into regular 

parts of time; 
Say, eight hours devote to labor, 
Then five to Fame and favor, 
And cultivate your family for the 

balance of the time. 

'Tis the only real sane living, 

God ever intended giving, 

To his people on earth, whose lives are 

short at best; 
Let us practice something clever. 
Live thru life with one endeavor. 
Not to lose perfect happiness — thru 

Ambitions greedy test. 



30 



IT MIGHT HAVE DONE IN FATHER^S TIME. 

Since father came from Dublin, 

Forty-two long years have fled; 
He was six months on the schooner — - 

Passed most of it in bed — 
While now, to dear old London 

You're just five days at sea, 
Six months was right in father's time 
but 

'Twill never do for me. 

My father thot it pleasure 

In an old ox-cart to ride ; 
His ox team was a treasure 

Dearer than all beside; 
Three miles an hour the limit, 

He was "going some" you see — 
It might have done in father's time, 
but 

'Twill never do for me. 

Since Father's time, great happenings 

Have followed, one by one; 
By hand he did the milking, 

By machine at present done. 
Now the Esperanto language 

Is spoken on land and sea; 
English was right in Father's time, 
but 

'Twill never do for me. 

In Father's time the ladies 

Were honored by all mankind ; 
While dressed so very simply, 

Were content in heart and mind. 
Today such great advances 

In her apparel now we see — 
Mother's gowns were fine to father, 
but 

Please wear the sheath for me. 

31 



So, please give me a steam car, 

To cruise upon the land, 
An airship made to navigate 
The air by breezes fanned. 
The telephone and the wireless. 
Moving pictures all can see. 
Were never known in Feather's time, 
but 

They're good enough for me. 



RETROSPECTION! 

Tho many years Iiave swiftly passed 

Still cling these memories true; 
Of countless bye-gone scenes 

In many countries, traversed thru. 
And recollections' eagle eye 

Still scans the picture thought. 
And fancy weaves a clear cut web 

With flitting memories wrought. 

So fondly in our hearts we find 

In clinging memory still, 
The rock or path, or vine, or wall. 

The bubbling pool, or babbling rill. 
And 'round about, in happy flight 

A thousand thoughts will run ; 
For fancy recalls in a moment's time 

The chain of wondrous things we've done. 

Then watching by the glowing coals, 

As firelight pervades the gloom ; 
How well do you remember, 

Your first days in this room. 
With nimble steps and rosy cheeks. 

Your happy laughs rang loud. 
When dear ones tho much older now, 

Sought rest from noise and crowd. 

At eventide, when the Sun was low, 

And the supper dishes done. 
You recall again, with happy sigh. 

The contentment, yea the fun. 
For happjT^ days were plenty then, 

Your slippers, oh bliss profound ! 
For they possessed more happiness 

Than a famous man's renown. 



Memory ! Oh, most precious jewel, 

Thou, to thy possessor art ! 
And soothing to tlie weary breast, 

Its scintiUations, wlien thej^ dart. 
The fullness of contentment's cup 

A satisfied memory brings. 
That perfection of joy untold, 

From a pure heart ever springs. 

Childhood ! From the earliest thought. 

The child mind ever retained, 
Recollections true are ever brought 

And the troubled heart sustained. 
The gray hair ! The feeble step ! 

Though symbols of advancing years. 
Are never a source of sad regret, 

If memories bring Joy, not fears. 

God grant, that, when we too are old, 

And Time moves our Foot-steps slow; 
That the memory of our bye-gone days 

May be as sweet as the Apple blow 
And wlien we are called to a higher sphere, 

We may recall without regret. 
The years of life, now passed and gone, 

As a jewel with faultless diamonds set. 



34. 



COME, JUMP ABOARD. 

If Memory's ship puts out to sea. 
With Recollections' sails outspread, 

'Tis guided by the Helm of Memory, 
By Helmsman Thought, 'tis said. 

She breasts the waves of regret and fear, 

She rolls in the slough of dispair. 
Then mounts to the crest of a Hope that's dear. 

For the ship is staunch and fair. 

She wallows in chop seas of Doubt, 
And her frame of Faith groans loud; 

Then the sunshine of Memory flashes about 
Through rifts in Sorrow's cloud. 

'Tis the ship of memories, ever dear. 
Carrying a carefully selected crew. 

And sails under skies of a Conscience clear. 
Of an ever true Azure hue. 

'Tis you and I who sail this ship. 

Across the seas of Life ; 
'Tis you and I who take the trip 

Upon the billows of daily strife. 

And when our ship puts out to sea. 

With a crew of just you and I, 
Let us try and keep her in the lee 

Of the shoals of Care, hard-bye. 

And sail by the Compass of Sweet Esteem, 

By the Stars of Sure Belief, 
Tho the ship may roll, and at times Careen, 

She can never strike Hopeless Reef. 

So let us take passage on Memory's ship. 

To the land of Anywhere, 
No one can prevent our taking this trip 

And the Weather is Always Fair. 



35 



CATASTROPHE. 

A dear little rivulet, rippled along, 

Singing a strain of its own little song, 

While a gleam of light 

Streamed through the trees. 

In its meandering flight ; 

And a playful breeze 

Sprang ujd from the -west and was blowing strong. 

A beautiful maiden laj- on the grass so green, 

Was enjoying a rest, it was plain to be seen, 

And just to ease her head 

She had removed her hair 

'Twas a mountain of red 

Of a shade quite rare. 

While she drowsed in a daylight dream. 

Her graceful form lay with pleasing grace 

In innocent abandon in that quiet place, 

And never a thought 

Entered her drowsy head 

Of her being caught 

Witli no hair on her head. 

And the cruel wind blew on apace. 

Then the beautiful hair arose in the air. 

As the wicked breeze wafted it liere and tliere, 

When a mongrel hound 

Strolled down that way. 

And giving a bound 

He landed his prey 

And ran with that mount.iin of liair. 

Then the maiden awoke witli a terrible scream. 

She grabbed at her head — and shuddered I ween. 

But her liair WAS there 

And a gratified sigh 

Fell there on the air. 

As the breeze whistled by. 

And the maiden SAT. aw.ikc on the green. 



A BACHELOR'S PUZZLE. 

A bachelor young at his window sat 
Trying to discover "where he was at". 
His subject was deep^ yes, very absorbing; 
He deeply mused, was not observing 
How time was flying and he was due 
At the Batallion club for the grand review. 

No thought of the club had crossed his mind; 
He was wondering how others of his kind, 
With money in plenty and position fine. 
With place in society good for all time; 
Were happy and free, contented with life. 
Satisfied to live without worry nor strife. 

His head is bent in study brown. 
He murmurs to himself, his brow in frown, 
"Now Jones and Smith, who are just my age. 
Have never read a line on trouble's page; 
I've something lacking to make life sweet. 
The puzzle is — "How to make life complete?" 

But at just this time a pleasing sight 

Seems to solve at once the puzzle right; 

The bachelor opens wide his bright brown eyes, 

And gazes in wonder and sweet surprise 

At a little child, which before him stood, 

Seeming to answer his puzzle for well and good. 

A commonplace sight, but not before, 
Had our bachelor friend seen at his door 
A scene his brain to wondering set. 
To know if his puzzle is answered yet; 
To know if by taking to himself a wife 
Would end and for all this tormenting strife. 

37 



"And yet," he thought again lighting liis weed, 
"How must a man of position try to succeed 
In securing a wife, who needs must be 
Oood and pretty and handsome to see, 
Who is bright and witty and intelligent witlial. 
By nature kind, gentle and pleasant to all." 



A few months later for our bachelor friend 
His lonely existence came to an end; 
For then it was that his wedding occurred. 
And since that day we have never heard 
A single complaint, nor passing regret; — 
We wonder if the puzzle is answered yet. 



38 



MOTHER. 

Oh ! The pretty dimpled darlings 
Isn't he sweet! Just too charming, 
And the mother takes her babe 
From the cradle's down'y nest. 
The mother's fond heart is beating, 
With proud joy at the greeting, 
While the baby coos with pleasure 
Nestling there on mother's breast. 

Its soft blue eyes are gleaming, 
The love light is ever streaming. 
As the mother fondly gazes 
At her first born in her arms. 
The little one crows with meaning. 
Its laughter is full of feeling. 
As the mother gently caresses 
Her babe so full of charms. 

Tho years are rapidly passing. 
The Mother Love is lasting. 
And the baby may have grown. 
Into manhood brave and strong. 
Still, the mother heart is teeming. 
Full of trust "her boy" is keeping 
'Long the paths of manly honor. 
And ever free from wrong. 

We are often slow in believing 
That the mother heart is bleeding 
With worry and with fear 
At the error in our lives. 
But we can by thoughtful striving, 
Fill that heart so much deserving, 
Full of truest, sweetest happiness. 
Ere her spirit homeward flies. 



39 



TWO MONTHS TIL SPRING. 

Yes, it is quite easy, sitting 

By a coal fire burning briglit. 
With the flames in constant flitting, 

With a queer, yea, eerie light ; 
When the snow finds every crevice, 

And the wind has a chilling ring, 
Then I wonder wliat the service 

Of those two long months 'til Spring. 

How the cold wind, wildly rushing 

Through the leafless trees without. 
Gives the cheek a brilliant flushing. 

Drives the drifted snows about; 
When the cold intense is growing. 

And I know that Ice is King, 
Then I watch the firelight, knowing 

That 'tis two long montlis 'til Spring. 

Yes, I love the sleigh-bells jingle. 

Admire the horses lively run. 
Enjoy the smarting frost-bite tingle. 

Imagine sleighing, heaps of fun ; 
Lunch on pop-corn and drink cider. 

Smoke a cob-pipe, laugh and sing, 
Then I wonder, think, and ponder, 

On those two long months 'til Spring. 

But, now really, don't you luinger, 

For the warmth of summer days.'' 
For vacation days in summer, 

Then to bask in Sun's warm rays; 
When tlie fields and streams are calling, 

And the birds are on the wing. 
Don't you find the winter galling, 

Wlien 'tis two long months 'til Spring? 

40 



Don't you long for running water. 

Long for woods and shady lanes, 
Long to visit that dear old shelter 

Though it leaked during heavy rains; 
Wish you could once more go fishing, 

Desire to make the woodland ring, 
But you know there's no use wishing 

For 'tis two long months 'til Spring. 

Two long months of cold and freezing, 

Sixty days of frost and snow. 
Ere we hope to refrain from sneezing 

All the time, where-ere we go; 
But the hope is hot within us. 

We will make the welkin ring. 
When Boreal winds forsake us 

And we feel the breath of Spring. 



4>l 



DREAMS, 

Wliat are Dreams, did I hear you say? 

Why just the lightness of a heart quite gay; 

Just the langour of a sweet repose^ 

Just the fragrance of a true Moss rose; 

Or the caress of just a passing breeze, 

Or the quaver of softly rustling leaves ; 

Pleasant dreams, on dearest themes. 

Come by these and otlier means. 

Some inspired from notes of friends. 

From the world's uttermost ends ; 

Which bearing tales, that, though often told. 

Seem never to weary nor grow old. 

So your thoughts become centered on tlie tale. 

And happiness will in your soul prevail. 

Pleasant dreams, on dearest themes. 

Come from these, and other means. 

Come from memories, fresh and green. 
Thoughts of friends you most esteem; 
The notes of birds upon the wing. 
The songs you dearly love to sing; 
The thoughtfulness of a friend of thine, 
(Good friends a blessing most divine) 
Pleasant dreams, on dearest themes. 
Come from these, and other means. 

Dreams personify your thoughts and mine, 
Portraying mind wanderings of a wakeful time; 
Staging a scene witli clearness true, 
As every actor is brought to your view; 
And the curtains rise, as the eye-lids close. 
And you enjoy your dream througli sweet repose 
Pleasant dreams, on dearest themes. 
Come from these, and otlier means. 

What's tlie dream? If you would know 
Where tliey start and where they go. 
Relate tlie story, explain tlie theme, 
Tell the characteristics of the dream; 

42 



If it brought Happiness unto you^ 
Or left you worried and feeling blue^ 
Pleasant dreams or hideous dreams^, 
Come from widely varied means. 

If your dream had fateful fancies^, 
Ghosts or ghouls in horrid dances, 
Maidens strangled, stabbed or burning, 
Terrible atrocities at every turning, 
Imiaginations that the blood doth chill. 
Watch your digestion, for you are ill. 
Hideous dreams on Sanguine themes. 
Come from Dyspepsia, and other means. 



Thus I ponder; for it truly seems. 
While enjoying my own dear, pipe dreams. 
That you may have had, as well as I, 
Dreams that have caused you to laugh or cry; 
Dreams that you could not quite recall. 
Perhaps but the theme, if anything at all. 
But pleasant dreams on dearest themes. 
Are happy things, no matter the means. 

But those fit for Kings or Queens, 
Are the wide awake, the daylight dreams, 
Say, watching a sunset in western skies. 
While the earth seems a veritable paradise ; 
With Perfection of beauty, arrangement, scheme. 
This is the best, most delightful dream. 
And 'perfect dreams' on dearest themes. 
Come from sunsets, and other means. 

So, dream away, oh, friend of mine. 

Let every dream be happiness divine; 

With joy running rampant. And let the thread 

Unwind from living joys, not dead. 

For dreams picture what we think or feel. 

They carry our thoughts, lifelike and real. 

And may said dreams be along pleasant themes. 

Occasioned by happiness, yea, by all means. 



43 



VACATION TIME. 

A sliady nook, a babbling brook, 

A lovely summer girl; 
A refreshing breeze, large leafly trees, 
The summer resort's gay whirl. 

A likel}" lake, a big clam bake, 

A bon-fire on the beach ; , 

A cute canoe, for her and you. 
Whilst seamanship you teach. 

The sunny stroll, to a shady knoll. 
On the bank above the shore; 

The laughter light, the wit so bright. 
That makes one long for more. 

The Lovers Lane, the lovely strain 

Of music from afar; 
Your senses reel, with love you feel 

Your 'gate of reason' is ajar. 

The dream of bliss, the soulful kiss. 

The love so deep and true ; 
The dreamy eyes, with glad surprise. 

Looking askance at you. 

The mooney moon, the spooney spoon. 

Ended abruptly one day, 
For the gay coquette, you couldn't forget, 

T^eft — a board bill for you to pay. 



44 



TRIPLETS, 

For months they both had puzzled, 

Had studied all the time, 
For what to name the baby, 

Was point exceeding fine. 




But on the day eventful. 

When the stork was flying high, 
They concluded to name the baby, 

Ein Zwei Dri. 



46 



THE SMILE AND THE ROSE. 

The prettiest Rose that grows. 

My Dear, 
Tlie prettiest Rose that grows, 

Is the rose on the cheek 

Of a girl quite meek. 
When winter's chill wind blows. 

The dearest Light that's known, 

My Dear. 
The brightest ever shown. 

Is the light that lies 

In your darling eyes, 
When sorrow, all has flown. 

The dearest Smile. I've seen. 

My Dear. 
The sweetest too. I ween. 

Is the one I trace 

On my baby's face. 
Waking from a happy dream. 

The sweetest word that's heard. 

My Dear. 
The very sweetest word. 

Is the "Mama Dear," 

We sometimes hear, 
Could another be preferred? 

The dearest Laugh to me. 

My Dear, 
Whole souled, happy, free. 

Is the ripple clear. 

When children near. 
Are laughing light-heartedly. 

The Light and Rose and Word. 

My Dear. 
The Laugh and Smile that flows. 

In everlasting stream. 

From your heart. I ween. 
.Vre the dearest this old world knows. 



46 



COULD GRANITE SPEAK, 

Upon the air of Tigris wild, 

The Danube and the Rhine, 
Most melting song of love and war 

Would reverberate for all time. 
And then again, in Cheop's shade 

In Alhambra's sunny clime. 
From the Indus to the Thames would roll, 

Murmuring sighs like yours or mine. 

Could Granite Speak, 

Then ere the sun goes down 

We would ourselves distrust. 
For in that awful expose of the right 

We'd hide our faces in the dust. 
Our petty faults and graver crimes. 

Would harshly grate on sweeter chimes 
Tho voicing true our thoughts and deeds 

Our hearts would sink, with fear, at times. 

Could Granite Speak. 

In happier strains 'twould sing 

Of a lovely cross, wliich raised its head 
In kind remembrance of a man 

Long numbered with the honored dead. 
A Hero of the olden times. 

For so the song would run; 
A true knight of the noble class 

Who fought the wild and heartless Hun. 

Could Granite Speak. 

This stone would sing of generosity himself, 
Who lived for other's happiness ; 

Whose wealth was to him but loaned 
For kindness and for usefulness. 

47 



Whose kindly heart and good intents 

Won the love of all. in the broadest sense; 

And. when grim death did call him hence. 
He carried the people's love, his recompense. 

Could Granite Speak. 

What strange revelation it would make I 

What mysteries of the forgotten past; 
Or secrets of our lifetime 

Would be revealed thus, at last. 
Or Jiidden gold of thought or deed; 

Or world of wonder and delight. 
Would open its great portals wide 

That we might view with clearer sight. 

Could Granite Speak. 

Then sweetest to thine ear would come 

The song of our great Washington. 
The ballad of our nation's birth : 

And the heroes of long past Lexington ; 
And then, in softest tones would ring 

Those sad, sweet chimes — Mt. Vernon's bells- 
And every stone in that sacred tomb. 

Would sing of him who therein dwells. 



48 



FRIDAY, THE Bth DAY* 

'Twas Friday and the 13th day 

Of that lovely month of June, 
When two lovers strolled along the bay 

By the light of the risen moon ; 
It seemed that each was sore afraid 

That the other would fade away. 
So the boy clung to the pretty maid 

And she never once said nay. 

She knew that clinging art by heart 

And felt at perfect ease, 
While the young man, just to play his part 

Gave her hand a gentle squeeze; 
She responded with a sweet caress, 

That caused his head to swim. 
But the girl then felt in some distress. 

For fear of losing him. 

The boy felt very much the same — - 

He had his fears as well — 
And they strolled along that lover's lane, 

While their hearts with rapture swell. 
They repeated that sweet, old story. 

For their hearts were light and gay 
The future for them held no worry. 

On this Friday, the 13th day. 

A year then passed in rapid flight. 

Twelve months of perfect bliss; 
The lovers met nearly every night 

And bemoaned the nights they'd miss. 
They figured what 'twould cost to live. 

In a cottage by the sea. 
But never a thought did either give 

To an increase in their family. 

49 



Then the marriage bells wild clamor, 

The strains of the wedding march, 
Made a scene of strange, quaint glamour 

As they marched under the floral arch ; 
Their delight none could gainsay. 

Their life was one dream of bliss, 
As they drove to the cottage by the Bay, 

To enjoy their new happiness. 

Then another year has passed away. 

With its routine of trial and care, 
(The installment man. The rent to pay, 

Ajid the coal man's icy stare) 
But the greatest trial to these Newly-wed, 

(In all cases 'tis just the same) 
Was when Doctor sent the wife to bed 

And the white capped nurse then came. 

But they had waited patiently 

For the arrival of an heir. 
Waited so very expectantly 

For this joy, (and added care) 
But their anxiety was ended 

On Friday the 13th Day, 
When a Great White Stork descended 

Leaving Triplets there to play. 



50 



Oh for those days when childhood's content 

Meant simply a dollie, perhaps rubber or rag; 

Size did not matter^ nor style nor pigment, 

If it was a DOLLIE with arms that would wag. 

Maybe 'twas rubber with stomach protruding, 
With whistle that squeaked like a toy siren (?) 

An air through the hole in the whistle exuding, 
Shrill as a blast from lips of real men. 

Maybe 'twas lovely; with most costly raiment, 
Clothed and bedecked with silks and with gold ; 

Maybe 'twas waxen with many days spent 

Arraying this beauty like real children of old. 

Maybe 'twas China with face most appalling. 
Grotesquely fashioned and mouth open wide, 

With eyes that were glassy and arms limply fallini 
While sawdust was sifting from a rip in its side. 

Maybe 'twas fuzzy — so soft its ensemble 
Of white lamb's wool, all pure and sweet; 

With face bewitching and eyes that would tremble 
Perfection from hat to its stocking'd feet. 

Maybe 'twas Esquimaux — brown little lady. 
Far from Arctic-land of the jNIidnight Sun; 

Cute in her furs, this sweet little baby. 
Rolling blue eyes as she looked at one. 

Oh for those days when childhood's content 
Meant simply a dollie, perhaps rubber or rag; 

Size did not matter, nor style nor pigment. 
If it was a dollie with arms that would wag. 



51 



A SMILE, 

The kindly motives of a simple heart, 

Much sympathy ofttimes doth impart. 

A word — a look — a nod — or smile. 

The darkest sorrows oft beguile. 

A Word — the cloud of gloom lifts up, 

A Smile — removes gall from a bitter cup, 

A Nod — evidences knowledge of a similar pain, 

A Look — changes the tone of a sad refrain. 

A Smile that is open and pure and free. 

Is Man's greatest blessing, it seems to me. 

It carries solace to the troubled heart. 

And a joyous message doth it impart. 

It tenders sj^mpathy in times of need. 

And offers encouragement when you don't succeed; 

And Failure never can have so bitter a sting. 

If you Smile in the face of everything. 



52 



NATURE* 

How happy to live with Nature True, 
When natural beauty appeals to you, 
The wooded dell or wilder glen, 
The untracked marsh or lowly fen. 
The rushing waters of a little stream, 
The miniature falls, the sunlight's sheen 
The notes and songs of native birds, 
Are all too sublime for words. 



53 



JIM ENGLISHMAN, 

Jim Englishman was a Frenchman true, 

Tho born on the Emerald Isle; 
His German parents, he well knew. 

Were Russians, all the while. 
They raised him on the River Rliine, 

Where Eidelberg now stands. 
And when he grow to manhood fine. 

He left his native lands. 

In leaving the Old World for the New, 

He crossed tlie briny deep; 
He looked America thru and thru 

Then 'Adopted' the new country. 
He selected Michigan for a home, 

As this state pleased him best, 
And never once had a desire to roam 

After he had settled down to rest. 

He secured a job in a factory 

At a bare six plunks per week ; 
His work proved satisfactory 

Oiling machines so they wouldn't squeak. 
And then lie worked for many a year 

'Til, one day, tliey advanced liis pa}'; 
They say he didn't shed a tear, 

BUT— Fell dead instantly. 

Poor Jim was tlien laid out in state, 

By a solemn faced undertaker. 
As Jim liad now three daj's to wait 

Before journeying to liis maker. 
Tliree days of peaceful qui-e-tus, 

Which for Jim was true, sweet bliss; 
To watch the people make a fuss 

Over tliat fool thing or this. 

5Q 



'Til finally came the burial day, 

When the factory boys and men 
All gathered 'round the cold, cold clay 

They could never see again. 
And Jim was truly proud to see 

The factory Boss' bowed head, 
As he passed the "beer" most solemnly 

Paying homage to the dead. 

G. Keneuka had been his "booz-um" mate, 

But had passed on long before. 
And in the church-yard lay in wait 

Under neath a marble floor; 
And Jim was pleased beyond expression, 

When arrangements were all made. 
For you could see that his procession 

Would put Keneuka's in the shade. 

Well, they loaded Jim into a hearse. 

With his head placed to the east; 
The choir then softly sang a verse. 

As the 'mourners' pulled from the feast. 
The procession formed upon the street. 

With the factory boys ahead. 
Then moved along with percision neat 

To the burial place of the dead. 

Now, Jim was pleased as he could be. 

At the elegance and the style. 
And one could not help but see 

That to die was worth one's while. 
And when at last the procession came. 

To the Cemetery on the hill. 
His satisfaction one could hardly name. 

For his vanity had 'had' its fill. 

The procession slowly came around 

Then circled to the right, 
To where a canvas covered mound 

Told of a new dug grave in sight. 
The bearers then each took a hand. 

And removed Jim from the hearse. 
The mourners 'mourned' like a German band, 

While the choir sang another verse. 



57 



Jim lieard their lamentations loud, 

And they awoke a strong regret, 
That, lying in his burial shroud, 

These folks should cry and fret. 
So, Jim from sympathy overpowered, 

Could not bear to 'see' their pain, 
iVs they, their 'tears' so plentifully showered. 

And cried their 'cries' in vain. 

The casket lay upon the straps. 

When Jim gave a startling yell. 
The bearers jumped, and thot perhaps 

'Twas just a clever sell. 
But Jim began to kick and thrash 

And throw his arms about. 
The crowd heard the top glass crash 

And departed in frightened rout. 

They stood not upon what w^ay. 

Nor the manner of their leaving. 
But rushed pell-mell in a get-a-way 

With haste that was truly grieving; 
Then Jim broke from the shattered case. 

But he found no friends in sight, 
A look of anguish crossed his face 

For they had left him in sorry flight. 

So, he crawled back into his narrow cell, 

That he had so ruthlessly shattered, 
And nailed it up quite good and well. 

As before the crowd had scattered. 
He lowered the coffin, filled the grave, 

And sodded the place quite nicely. 
Carved a headstone, then a sigh he gave, 

As his spirit wafted away 'precisely.' 



58 



THE CEMETERY. 

There where headstones are a'gleaming^ 

In the sunshine or the rain^ 
Where the tears of friends are streaming, 
Where each song has a sad refrain; 
Where in closest mute communion, 
Are held sessions of Deaths' Strict Union, 
There in deepest secrecy hiding, 
A knowledge all would gladly gain. 

How the chiselled marble story 
Holds the eye as I pass bye; 
To see how many had forgotten worry, 
Tho to triumph they had to die; 

There they rest. But in their housing. 
No fear nor pity are they arousing. 
For they sweetly sleep, their sorrows ended, 
Never more to mourn nor cry. 

Far and wide the headstones glisten. 

As the sunshine flashes bright. 
While in silence, I stop and listen, 

I wonder how t'would look at night; 
Then to my mind there came a notion; 
Some day upon this mysterious ocean, 
I must rest upon the oar, 

I had pulled with all my might. 

Rest. And in the tranquil sleeping. 

Must neighbor with a stranger clan; 
In this village of sighs and weeping. 
Deep below paths trod by man. 

There imprisoned for time unending, 
Far, perhaps, from paths now wending. 
Old and young; sweetheart and lover; 
Rich and 230or are returned again. 



59 



Why is Life, if Death comes basking. 

Xeath the shadow of your door? 
Comes unbeckoned and unasking. 
Greedily taking a life — and more — 
Calls on one and then another. 
Takes a lover, sister, brother. 
To the Silence and the Shadow. 
To the Future for evermore. 

To the land, whence none returning. 
Leaves the future still unsolved. 
Fills the heart with greatest yearning. 
The wish to have our fears absolved. 
Fear of long, yea countless eons. 
But levelled all are nobles, plebians. 
Tho we know that now and ever. 
Each future must, bv each, be solved. 



60 



FOUND. 

She looked into the jDarlor^ 

And underneath the stove; 
She hurried through the lower rooms 

And out in to the grove. 
She ransacked the bureau 

And emptied all the draws; 
She tore up the bed ticks 

And scattered all the straws. 

She searched through the parlor 

But could not find them there; 
She rushed into a bedroom 

Then flew up the stair ; 
She looked into the chimney 

And underneath the bed, 
She glanced into the bookcase, 

And then she scratched her head. 

She questioned all the children. 

For an hour she quizzed the maid; 
She soon got out of patience 

And began a wild tirade; 
"Who is it that's got my specks.^" 

When a lad quite softly said; 
"Why there they are, dear Aunty, 

A'resting on your head." 



61 



THE AWAKENING. 

In my apartment, just reposing. 
Think perhaps that I was dozing, 
When awakened 

by a pounding at my door; 
Heard a loud and constant rapping. 
Knew someone had caught me napping, 
And realized who was tapping, 
'Twas the Postman 

at my door ; 
With a letter, thick and heavy, 

Such as I had known before. 

Then by grate fire, briglit and cheery, 
P'ace long drawn and very weary. 
Betokening sleepless 

nights of yore ; 
I gazed at the letter, half divining. 
Something of evil therein confining. 
P'rom the superscripture defining 
A dread of allowing 

ni}' thoughts to soar; 
Tlien hesitating no longer. 

Found my allowance to be no more. 

First came a feeling of awful sadness. 
Which drove me on to sudden madness, 
This loss of income. 

enjoyed before; 
Income so generous, they were sending. 
Money freely. I had been spending. 
On gay nights that were never ending, 
Unth High Life 

became a bore ; 
Now being a pauper it would not bother. 
High Life would never trouble, 

never trouble me more. 



62 



Then to think that I must labor, 

Eke a livings, without help nor favor, 

Made my senses reel 

and my mind to rave; 
Madness to my brain was creeping, 
'Til a thought set me to weeping, 
With a heart in terror beating, 
Thoughts turning naturally, 

to the grave; 
Thus I wonder, cry and ponder. 
Wonder if I'm truly, 

Even worth the while to save. 

Curse the fate that holds one closely, 
Bound in chains of indolence mostly. 
The pampered sons 

of wealthy sires ; 
Brilliant in their social standing. 
Society's selectest sets commanding. 
Whilst Father's money spending. 
Just to satisfy 

their mean desires; 
Thus my mental cogs were working. 
Faster than the thought. 

Yes, than a thought, requires. 

Then came a sudden resolution. 
Causing the prompt institution. 
Of a search for something, 

just anything to do; 
But office buildings were overflowing. 
And had no room for the unknowing. 
And rebuffs more unkind were growing. 
Hard for me, 

because 'twas new. 
Harder for reason, each would question; 
"What's your business. 

Please tell me true?" 

"What's your business?" they would ask me, 
"What profession or trade possess ye? 
What knowledge do you 

claim as thine?" 
Then my answer came less clearly. 
At each question, saying merely, 

63 



I'd ^vork clieap by week or yearly, 
I would learn 

if given time ; 
And some to whom I ,si)oke were wealthy, 
Lately they were, 

Yes, 'friends of mine.' 

Latel}^, we were friends together, 
(Brilliant birds, all of a feather) ; 
So soon they had forgotten 

the friend they knew; 
NoM' they offer consolation, 
Witli some little ostentation, 
Pit^nng my tribulation. 
With condescension so evident 

that indignant I grew; 
Wondering why a night had ended 

every friendship that I knew. 

Now back to my chamber rushing. 
Just as the setting sun was blushing, 
At my childish innocence 

and guile ; 
My incompetence thus confessing. 
And my ignorance professing, 
Utter helplessness possessing 
My entire being 

all the while ; 
For nothing knew I of business matter, 
'Twas a heinous crime, 

That I knew, and vile. 



Then I thouglit. to end tlie cliapter, 
How and where could little matter, 
Expedition not tlie method 

the thing I most desired; 
Tlius another cause for worry, 
How to end my life in a hurry. 
Set me in a mental flurry. 
For to end it all now quickly 

I most ardently aspired ; 
With nothing on earth left to cling to. 
My resolution and courage 

most truly I admired. 



Gi^ 



Then with intensest brightness, 
I saw a shocking likeness, 
Of my body coldly lying 

upon the pavement, dead; 
This, then, my way of dying. 
Surely would not be so trying, 
(And there was no sense in sighing) 
So, I poised upon the sill 

of my window high, instead ; 
Then I fell "and in waking" 

found I'd fallen from my bed. 



65 



WHY. 

Softly September sunshine cieeping. 

Through the lattice on the vane. 
Darting through the chamber, faintly 

Reflecting on the window pane. 

'Cross the room and back again. 

Softly tip-toeing through the sunshine. 

Guarding foot-steps, were the sound 
Awake the rosebud in the cradle. 

Sweetly, breathing, little mound. 

In the cradle there I found. 

Sweetest eyes, of perfect lustre. 
Blue, of depth so pure and clear. 

Cheeks so pink and smile angelic. 
Thus I gaze at the baby dear 
Wondering if she knows I'm here. 

Months are fleeting — years are creepinc 
Flying past in fateful glee. 

The grim reapers sardonic greeting. 
Garners a store of humanity 
Of old and young for eternity. 

Thus I muse, in sadness dreaming. 

Of my own and friends sad fate. 
Yesterday full of vigor seeking. 

Fame on earth, to compensate. 

For the trial he had borne of late. 

Little rose bud — sweet little baby. 

Dearer far than e'en his life. 
Gone forever, we can see him never 

In this land of toil and strife. 

Gone before the grim reaper's knife. 

66 



Why can all these things be passing, 
Down from father unto son? 

Why is life ? If death unasking 
Takes our babies, one by one. 
Leaves us lonely ere day is done. 

Why oh why is death not kinder? 
That we who love might know, 

We could keep our children with us 
Those we love and cherish so, 
Not to lose them ere we go. 



67 



THE CHILKOOT SLIDE. 

One night way up in the Arctics. 

Where the circle is supposed to run. 
The dogs were fed. and the boys in bed. 

The supper dishes done: 
We lay there talking over. 

Many exciting mushes made. 
With danger nigh-where men do vie 

For gold on hill and glade. 

When Tom Swan spoke up saying: 

The saddest story I know. 
Is the Chilkoot Slide, where a hundred died. 

With the sweep of the ice and snow. 
We were packing up the summit 

In the Spring of "98 
And 'twas awful cold — it took right hold — 

'Til we thought 'twould never abate. 

The thousands bound for Klondike. 

Were feverish in their haste. 
With packs of grub, that made them lug. 

They never allowed time to waste. 
Four thousand pounds of outfit. 

Each miner was forced to take. 
A year's provision, a necessary condition. 

In the Arctic with life at stake. 

Then one day came the sunshine. 

Which pleasantly warmed the air. 
It softened the snow, which ceased to blow. 

And made rivulets here and there. 
The steady climb of the men in line. 

To Sheeps camp on the crest. 
A full mile long — a deep breathing throng. 

For the prospector knew no rest. 

68 



The heat under-mined the drifted snows, 
Up the mountain — in the vale — 

But the miner in line, would lose no time, 
And kept pacing up the trail. 

The shadowy file of back-bended men. 
Packing outfits tied in sacks, 

A dreary lug to the crest — a return without rest- 
To bend under weight of new packs. 



The weariness and the exhaustion, 

The soul-trying grind of work. 
To reach the goal, tried the stoutest soul. 

Though none desired to shirk. 
The sores upon the broad hard backs. 

The blisters upon the heel, 
The groans would come, from every one. 

For the suffering was real. 



For a month that file extended, * 

In serpentine line up the trail. 
While many had gone, on their mush along. 

Where lesser hardships prevail. 
Daily new faces were appearing, 

Flushed with eagerness for the fray, 
Both day and night — they climbed that height. 

And most untiring energy display. 

The mountains in their hoary cloak, 

Of heavy, glistening white. 
Would seem to mock, the chain gang walk, 

And grumble at the sight. 
And many times, perhaps to warn. 

The packers of peril near. 
The crags let go great packs of snow. 

Then the men the trail would clear. 



The line was full from vale to crest. 

Whilst sunshine warm and bright. 
Made perfect day for packing away. 

And their hearts happy and light. 
When upon the ear came a rumbling sound. 

Which struck terror to every breast; 
Down the mountain side, came the great snow slide, 

From the Mountain's Hoary Crest. 

69 



A hollow rumble, vast clouds of snow, 

Was the beginning of the end; 
Then a horrid rusli, and a solemn hush, 

The heavens seemed to rend, 
A deafening roar struck upon the ear. 

An earthquake seemed below, 
Tlien a stampede back, down the shifting track; 

A race for life in the snow. 

The heavens blazed with unearthly light. 

Which filtered through tumbling snow; 
The roar increasing — the doomed beseeching, 

God above and the men below. 
The serpentine line disappeared from view. 

In that sea of tumbling white, 
Which tossed and rolled — buried and bowled — 

The prospectors to left and right. 

That great white mass of ice and snow. 

Swept the Chilkoot like a wave; 
And left in its trail, a heart rending wail. 

From those saved from a grave. 
A hundred lives went out that day. 

In the twink'ling of an eye, 
How the Chilkoot snows — dealt many death blows, 

I'll not forget 'till I die." 



70 



AH YES. 

When the air is so refreshings 

In the Springtime of the year; 
With the sunshine brightly flashings 

When the Robin doth appear; 
When the green shows in the grasses^ 

When the Maple sap runs free^ 
When the lad^ with fishpole^ passes^ 

That's the season — for me. 

When the wife hangs out the beddings 

On a clothes line there to air ; 
When the husband is out a spading, 

Planting flower seeds here and there; 
When the dead leaves are*a'burning, 

When the potted plants appear; 
That's the time for which I'm yearning 

That's the best time of the year. 

When the bud on the lilac bushes^, 

Shows sure signs of springing out, 
When the frog croaks in the rushes, 

When the sparrow darts 'round about; 
When the Blue Jay and the Robin, 

Come and hop around your door. 
When you hear the bees a 'humming. 

Then you know that winter's o'er. 

When the auto is newly painted. 

When the brass shines just like new. 
When the air is heavily tainted, 

With the smells that auto's brew; 
When the auto driver dresses. 

In his jumper, cap and jeans. 
With hands full of cracks and creases, 

Then you know just what it means. 

When your house is all in a muddle. 

Things torn up and things torn down. 
Then you scent clear signs of trouble. 

Then you growl and fret and frown ; 
When you're sent to do the beating. 

Of the carpets on the line, 
Then you know you're fondly greeting. 

Good Old Springtime, so divine. 



73 



LE MISERERE— 

Strange things are done, under a murky sun, 

In crowded tenements bare. 
Queer people rave for the open grave, 

As relief from cruel dispair. 
How thousands exist, or even subsist. 

On the rations tliat they can buj^. 
For a dime or two. that will feed but few, 

And many just long to die. 

Two boys of tlie street, at twilight did meet. 

After hust'ling hard all day, 
Tom had a dollar, Bun's hoard was smaller, 

But luck seemed headed their way. 
Tho tired and sore, they were game to tlie core. 

In scliool they should liave been, 
But the fates decreed, tliat their souls should bleed, 

Wliere tenements reek with sin. 

Tlie homeless lad. not yet gone bad, 

The or})lian upon the street, 
Witli friends the same, neither liome nor name, 

Must hustle for bread and meat. 
Their wants were small, each worked for all. 

Their dimes were pooled together. 
To eat or to sleep, to laugli or to weep. 

Tliese lads were cliums forever. 



"A dollar at a time, 'tis great and fine, 

A millioniare soon, I'll be" 
Said Tom to Bun, his dear old chum. 

Holding the coin so Bun could see. 
But Bun seemed sad. neither lia])py nor glad. 

As lie hurried along the way; 
And with tearful eye. made laconic reply, 

'Doris seems much worse today.' 

74 



Now, for Doris, little elf, each cared more than self, 

Each loved sweet Doris true, 
Tho sick and lame, (a birth right shame) 

She was none the less true blue; 
The memory of her face, neither could efface, 

She shared in their sadness and mirth. 
Her champions ever, 'twas their fond endeavor. 

To ease her pains while on earth. 

The boys reached home, found Doris alone. 

In the bare room, seventh floor, rear; 
With its rickety table, box stove and cradle. 

Not much to comfort or cheer. 
A broken window pane, let in cold and rain. 

With no fire to warm the room. 
There the poor child lay on her pallet that day. 

Her voice sounding weak in the gloom. 

'Oh ! Tom and Bun I'm glad you've come 

I'm lonesome and so sad. 
My fever is high, I'm afraid I'll die. 

And I want to live so bad.' 
Tom dropped to his knees, and said 'Oh please 

Don't worry your life away; 
We've lots of money, to get you, honey, 

'Most anything you want this day,' 

'Yes, Doris,' said Bun, 'A doctor shall come. 

To make you well and strong. 
Then you shall see, how happy you'll be 

When life goes on like a song.' 
Doris groaned in pain, a sad refrain, « 

Which she tried in vain to repress. 
Bun stole swiftly away, leaving Tom to stay. 

Not daring to hope for success. 

Down the stairs he flew, a doctor in view. 

Whose oflice was a block away; 
The physician was there, and he explained with care, 

The trouble Doris was having that day. 
She looks so white, her cough is so tight. 

It has settled down in her chest. 
Her fever is high, and I hope you will try. 

To give her relief and rest. 

75 



"Now boy. said he. if you're fooling me. 

I'll have you sent to jail. 
And before I go. I would like to know. 

If you can pay me without fail. 
Bun's heart beat slow, for didn't he know. 

Two dollars was the physician's fee. 
Bet he offered his all. one half too small. 

Then waited most anxiously. 

In the hard cold face, a change took place. 

The Doctor's manner changed. 
He said "Lead on. I was just in fun. 

Your case shall be arranged.' 
They arrived quite soon at that seventh floor room. 

Where Doris on her pallet lay; 
Her face wore a smile, a happy sweet smile. 

But her spirit had flown away. 

God help the child, among tenements wild. 

In the city's tenderloin drear. 
Homeless and alone, no exertion can atone. 

For the blight of a birthright here. 
A wilderness true, where grim horrors brew. 

Where all follow in miseries' train. 
A cosmopolite people, but all here are equal. 

For all seek a living in vain. 



ARKANSAS FLATS* 

Down on the Arkansas flats, 

TrajDping Possum and rats, 

Joe passed his boy-hood days; 

His labors were few 

Having but little to do, 

But to bask in the sun's warm rays. 

So on a late fall day 

Joe had wandered away, , 

To fish upon a distant brook. 

And to lure fish from a pool 

There the water was cool 

He used his best bait and hook. 

And he took a small frog 

He had caught in the bog. 

On his way to the new fishing ground. 

This he hooked in a way 

That left its legs free to play 

And he 'spat on the bait' he had found. 

The brush by the pool 
Scratched his legs quite cruel, 
And bank was steep and high; 
So he stood on the sand. 
Grasping pole in his hand, 
While casting his frog closely bye. 

Closely watching his line, 

He awaited the time. 

When the bobber a nibble would show 

And he gave quite a start 

As he saw the bobber dart 

And down 'neath the surface saw it go. 

77 



Bat he abided his time 

Then jerked on the line. 

And hooked a lish hard and fast; 

Then giving it a swing. 

Like a bird on the wing) 
He saw a pike sail past. 

It landed upon the bank 

Among weeds green and dank. 

In the undergrowth, bordering the stream. 

Where a hog raised its head 

Gulped down fish, bait and lead. 

Then seemed to awake from a dream. 

For the hook dug in deep 

Caused his Hogship to weep. 

While the line hung down from his jaw; 

Then giving a wild grunt 

Mueh surprised at the stunt 

As "twas a startled hog that Joe saw. 

Joe was dazed for a time. 

But now grabbed for the line. 

For the Hog started away on a run ; 

But Joe caught the pole 

And though he fell in a hole. 

He intended to have part of the fun. 

Then away do^vn the stream 
Did they wildly careen. 
Til both were quite out of breath: 
The Hog seemed in trouble. 
And was bent nearly double. 
And apparently was choking to death. 

Joe just waited the time. 

(Still grasping the line.) 

When the Hog should breathe hi^ Inst: 

For by hook or crook. 

He must get the hook. 

That was anchored so hard and fast. 

With the hook in the frog. 

Frog and fish in the hog. 

And Hog anchored fast to Joe's line, 

78 



Each seemed then to feel 

An anxiety quite real, 

For neither was having a good time. 

Then as a final stunt, 

Mr. Hog gave a grunt, 

And belched forth fish, frog and hook; 

Then he laid down to rest. 

Being rid of the pest. 

While Joe hurried back to the brook. 

So Joe got his wish. 

Recovered hook and fish. 

And the frog he had caught in the bog ; 

And he returned to the stream. 

There to fish in between. 

His laughs at the expense of the hog. 



79 



HOPE AND WORK. 

Whj^ do you laugh at one who fails, 

To amass great wealth, or to lead the v^an? 

Who knows but that upon other trails 
He enjoys his life as no other can. 

He failed to reach the height 3^ou sought, 
In eager ambition, a high and mighty goal, 

But he won that which you held as naught, 
Happiness and home, and peace in his soul. 

In youth, his hopes were raised so high. 

Thought of great things his constant dream, 

But fame sailed on and passed him bye, 
It left him heart sick, humbled, mean. 

]\Ianhood found him with stronger heart. 
Hard fighting, the ladder of Fame to climb. 

Hope of Fame had fled, and for his part. 
Left only Hope, for Him, behind. 

Hope and work ever go hand in hand, 

Ambition and Greed, in harmony entwine, 

But Hope and Work, on mart or strand, 
Wi>(: men accept as Gifts Divine. 



80 



THE GREAT OUT O^DOORS* 

Many times when you are weary^ 
And the days are dark and dreary, 
And business cares beset you quite sore; 
When you wish for a secession, 
Of the endless-procession. 
That's winding in and out, thru' your office door. 

When you wish that you might sever, 
(A thought to me seeming clever) 
The cord that binds you to the completion of a dream; 
Then forget the labors trying, 
Forget the groans and sighing. 
And fly to God's Great Out O'Doors Where Nature 
reigns Supreme. 

To the woodland and the meadow. 
To the sunshine and the shadow. 
To the dreamland lying just across the county line. 
To the streams forever dancing. 
To the fields and groves entrancing. 
To live in the 'Out O'Doors' say, wouldn't it be fine.^ 

Where the violet sweetly raises. 
Its head in exquisite praises. 
Of the joy that come with the rising of the Sun; 
When the birds join in a chorus. 
In that dreamland now before us. 
In God's Great Out O'Doors, say wouldn't it be fun.^ 

To stroll along paths unending. 
Where Nature has been bending. 
Her efforts to encourage, a living just sublime, 
Where the unplowed field commences. 
With no homes, nor fields nor fences. 
To intrude upon the picture Nature paints with tints 
Divine. 

83 



W]iere moonbeams softly grlancing. 
Upon the water quickly dancing. 
.Vnd the shadows take on forms which are strangely 
grotesque. 
Where the wind sighs in the willows. 
And the lake is covered with billows. 
You roll up in a blanket and close your eyes — and rest. 

^Mlen awakened in the morning, 
Find Dame Nature has been adorning. 
Her children with beauties you could not see before; 
The dew besprinkled flowers. 
Springing from their leafy bowers. 
And the Violet, lovely Violet, carpeting a grassy floor. 

Say, are we not forgetting. 
In our life of fitful fretting. 
That life means more, if we look at its brighter side ." 
Tho we cannot paint the Lilly, 
And to try it would be silly. 
Get Out O'Doors This Summer. No Matter What 
Betide. 



84 



JOE CARBAUGH OF ARKANSAS. 

The prospector bold, who delves for gold, 

In Arctic wastes so drear; 
Poinds many surprises, as the reader surmises, 

And many dread causes for fear; 
In the long, long night, by the candle light, 

While the Sun six months is hid. 
In a waste of snow — among the Esquimo, 

The story teller lifts the lid. 

The truths they tell, might not sound well, 

In a ladies' club back home; 
But on Arctic trail, we fight tooth and nail. 

To preserve our flesh and bone; 
And every day 'tis but child's play, 

To face danger on every side; 
The fiercest trial only brings a smile, 

We laugh what ere betide. 

Where much is at stake — and danger great. 

Peril never seems to scare; 
People never shout nor run about 

While death seems in the air; 
So on this night, wrapped in blankets tight. 

As we lay there in a row; 
We listened intently, enjoying immensely. 

The story I append below, 

Nome A. D. 1900. 

"Now Joe Carbaugh, was from Arkansaw, 
Where summer remains the year; 

Where birds of song, sing sweet and long. 
For snow they never fear. 

Joe longed for gold, and the awful cold, 
. Never came into his mind. 

He got a grub-stake, one half he would make, 
Of all the gold he should find. 

85 



He arrived in Nome, where all alone. 

He looked for a bed to sleep. 
This not to be found he just lounged around. 

So lonesome he couldn't eat. 
Found a saloon open wide, so he stepped inside. 

The place was a blaze of light. 
The tables of green, it was plain to be seen. 

Were working overtime that night. 



He was feeling so blue — and his lonesomeness grew 

Till he lost all power of restraint. 
When invited to play, he could not say "nay". 

And lost money without complaint. 
So with gaming and wine he had a great time. 

Soon imagined he owned Anvil Creek, 
But when lie awoke 'twas to find himself broke. 

Lying out on the Tundra — sick. 



Then we happened bye, and heard his cry. 

Through sympathy we took him in ; 
Then we started to sea in the old Tipperree, 

Where Joe worked with a vim. 
But lie always looked sad. he felt mighty bad. 

Tho of his troubles he seldom spoke. 
But he often said, before he was dead, 

He hoped to regain his lost poke. 

Xow the Tipperree (our boat you see) 

Was a dory we had built in May; 
And ninety miles or more, we followed the shore. 

To the sand-spit on Clarence Bay ; 
Here we portaged the boat, then set her afloat. 

On Grantleys blue expanse ; 
With a blanket for sail, at the pace of a snail. 

Did the Tipperree slowly advance. 

The wind was dead wrong, for sailing along. 

So we pulled across the bay; 
For a thousand Reindeer, kept by Laplanders queer, 

But owned by the U. S. A. 
Then down with the tide, along the York side. 

We drifted in the Tipperree; 
Where Cliffs wild and high, were finally passed bye, 

We landed thru a surf tumbling sea. 

8G 



The weather had been fine^ like our own June time. 

With sunshine twenty hours a day; 
But when we awoke^ Joe said: "Holy Smoke, 

I never saw things change this way." 
The snow was piled high — the wind whistled bye — 

The cold was simply intense; 
We shivered in wet clothes, even the sea foam froze, 

Pshaw, Gold was no recompense. 

Then we made a rush, a prospector's mush, 

Back o'er the Tundra divides; 
On many creeks panned, the bedrocks' sand, 

While the mercury lower slides ; 
Then in the early fall, came a sudden squall. 

It snowed so we couldn't see. 
And mercury fell, to twenty below for a spell. 

That seemed like eternity. 

Chilled to the bone, Joe talked of home. 

Where the heat was so intense; 
While he bore up well, he said that Hell, 

Was warmer at all events ; 
And he drifted away on a very cold day. 

Into a stupor hard and fast. 
He ceased to breathe and his soul did leave. 

For a warmer clime at last. 

We didn't know what to do with Joe, 

As we could not dig a grave; 
I recalled that he said, when he was dead. 

All trouble and trial to save. 
So in that awful cold, we simply rolled 

Him tight in a reindeer skin. 
Then we gave him a ride, down to the river side. 

Where we intended to bury him. 

One of the boys then said: now that Joe is dead. 

We'd bury him with honor sure; 
Little time would suffice to freeze him in ice. 

So thick as to long endure. 
So we chopped away at the ice that day, 

'Til water bubbled up in the hole; 
We poured it on Joe while it froze you know, 

He was encased from head to sole. 

87 



'Twas two feet thick, it froze so quick, 

He seemed alive in a case. 
He seemed to breathe, liis breast to heave. 

And color come back to his face. 
But it was so cold, we took right hold. 

And shoved him tliru the ice, 
Where the Ageepuk flows, amid glistening snows. 

And he disappeared in a trice. 

We started away that very day, 

And mushed way back to N'ome, 
Caught the Ohio there, with no time to spare. 

And ten days later got home. 
The thoughts of my sleep, would often keep 

Trained on my old friend Joe; 
Could 'most hear his voice, which seemed to rejoice, 

In the warmth he had found below. 

Then late that year. I was shipwrecked near. 

An island in a southern sea ; 
A man on the beach pulled me up out of reach. 

Of the waves that were chasing me. 
I looked in his eye and thought I would die, 

I was filled with fear and awe ; 
For there on the sand of that southern land, 

I found Joe C a r b a u g h. 



88 



LONESOME? 



Some folks complain of ennui^ 
In the remote country town; 

The quiet^ sameness, wearying. 
They fidget, fume and frown. 

The rancher, on the grassy plain ; 

The miner, on the mountains drear; 
Are lonesome too, and oftimes feel 

The need of companions near. 

And the city folks need pitying; 

(Tho some fail to see it yet;) 
Some seem to be contented; 

Former scenes they oft forget. 

But deep within the weary heart, 

Continual aches prevail; 
Loneliness will, despite your wish, 

Your dearest dreams assail. 

You are lonely in the country. 
In forest and field, maybe. 

You never feel quite so friendless, 
As you feel in the large city. 

Upon whose streets forever, 
Great throngs of people move. 

Strangers to you and each other; 
Too busy to condemn or approve. 

They view with cold indifference. 
Your happiness and your grief. 

They cling to the heartless city. 
And from ennui, vainly seek relief 

89 



In your wish to secure contentment, 

From great loneliness be free, 
Flee away from the crowds that hurry, 

Down the streets of the large city. 

Secure the peace of the country, 
Seek gladness on field and stream. 

Dame Nature is never heartless 
In her presence, life is a dream. 

Are you lonesome among many thousands.'* 
Do you then, like me feel it most.^ 

If your heart chilled, in city crowds 
That unfeeling, indifferent, Host? 



90 



BILL GLINES* 

How memories of my childhood 

Come flocking to my mind; 
Happenings of home and wildwood, 

In my headpiece unconfined. 
Simple little happenstances^ 
Boyhood's daring or awful chances, 

Stories unbelievable, still quite true, 

If Bill Glines told them to you. 

How we wandered here and yonder, 

Chasing butterflies and bees; 
Stopping by a wood to ponder, 

At beauty of leaves and trees. 
Wondering at the whirling eddy 
In a stream flowing sure and steady, 

At every side finding something new ; 

Bill Glines said so, so 'tis true. 

Recall the picturesque log shanty, 
Where he lived beside the brook? 

Kitchen, bed room and pantry. 
All in one in his home'y nook. 

When his fireplace, fire a'b^azing. 

Filled your mind with thoughts amazing. 
Bill would reel off a story true. 
True, when Bill told it to you. 

Remember how he'd talk, (when smoking) 
With quaint vernacular, all his own. 

When the frogs were hoarsely croaking, 
In the Marshlands, near his home. 

How we kids, with eyes a'buldging. 

From their sockets, just fairly nudging, 
When Bill told us a story new. 
True, when Bill told it to you. 

91 



Upon his bed of sweet Pine branches, 

(For he scorned new fangled things) 
He would lie ( r) and reel off fancies, 

Flighty as mind wanderings. 
Lieing ( ?) upon his bed of branches, 
When the firelight faintly dances, 

And we believed his stories true. 

True, when Bill told them to you. 

How our hearts would beat and flutter. 

Faces blanch and muscles knot. 
Listening to Glines slowly mutter. 

Bloody tales of that very spot. 
Wliilst from out there came the howling. 
Of a wolf upon nightly prowling. 

Then, we could not doubt — 'twas true. 

True, when Bill told it to you. 

Remember all the quaint expressions. 
That he reeled off by the yard? 

How his stories made deep impressions, 
Upon me, his humble pard. 

And his memory, softly stealing. 

Floods my soul with deepest feeling, 
When I think of his stories true. 
True, when Bill told them to you. 

Long rest and Peace to Glines 
ALay his memory forever keep, 

Fresh and green as the Ivy vines. 
The blanket for liis last long sleep. 

And may the angels listen well 

To all the stories Glines may tell; 
For Bill's stories are memories true. 
True, for Bill told tliem to you. 



92 



FREDERICK, 

When I was a tiny little hoy, 
My Mother's darling and Papa's joy, 
I was really the "onliest" little one, 
Enjoying all attentions under the Sun. 
They called me Dearie, Freddie and Ted, 
Hugged me tight when tucked into bed, 
Kissed and caressed and fondled me true , 
Oh ! My life was heavenly when I was but two. 



How everyone laughed at my Goo-Goo Eyes, 
Said I made life, just Paradise, 
And bubbled over with happy glee. 
Said angels couldn't compare with me. 
How they ogled, fussed and fooled away. 
Trying to make me either laugh or play, 
As they jumped me up or dropped me down. 
When I was the King of my native town. 

They laughed at my every cough or sneeze. 
When I kicked my feet or bent my knees, 
Tho I couldn't see the joke just then, 
'Twas a funny thing, so they laughed again. 
They hardly let me go to sleep, 
Wrapping my head as they did my feet, 
Stuffing me 'round with pillows and things. 
Humming the lullabys a mother sings. 



Then, a neighbor would come bust'ling in. 
Catch me up, chucking me under the chin, 
And expect me to act so bright and play. 
And even yet, I can hear her say — 
"Oh, you darlin', sweetes, precious chile, 
I'se jus goin to hole you fer a while, 
You'se des the sweetes, darlingest thing. 
You little angel, without a wing." 

95 



Then came the bouncing and tossing too, 
Babv-talk. fussing and huUabloo. 
The rocking and jumping upon her knee. 
A baby never forgets 'til eternity. 
Til tired and weary and very sore. 
And chucked into a cradle upon the floor. 
I'd fall into a faint, they always called sleep. 
Hide my face in the pillows and silently weep. 

Aunt would come over to spend the day. 
Expecting me to be busy every minute at play, 
The dear old lady loved me very much, 
Tho I always felt creepy at her touch. 
A defect in her speech, all will agree. 
Made her spit in my face with every s and p. 
So I was glad when her visit was through. 
Tho I but a babv, and not vet two. 



How well I recall my flrst step alone. 
Between two chairs in the old cottage home; 
I raised myself up and standing there 
Wondered to myself if I would dare. 
Then obeying an impulse I then and there. 
Took two little steps to a near-by chair, 
A revelation to me, as it was to you. 
When you were a baby and not yet two. 

Oh. the hike-warm bottle, the oat meal gruel. 
The sickening Hive syrup I thought so cruel. 
The candy cathartics, the Vermifuge too. 
'Twas a nasty dope as you well knew. 
But it was not all sorrow in my baby life. 
It was not all filled with worry and strife. 
For, full many the happy days I knew. 
When I was a babv and not vet two. 



Oh, the caps and capes and hoods as well. 
The cloaks and bibs and the dresses swell. 
The bund'ling up and the changing time. 
The washings hung out on the kitchen line. 
Tlie Measles. Chicken Pox and Croup. 
(My how they'd jump when ever I'd wlioop) 
And so every week my knowledge grew, 
Tho I was a baby and not yet two. 

96 



Now my hardest time, to tell the truth, 
Was the day I cut my very first tooth, 
Oh, what a fuss and jollification, 
I never saw the like in all creation. 
The astounding fact flew far and wide, 
And countless neighbors flocked to my side= 
As for the tooth, why, it steadily grew, 
As does a tooth, for one, not yet two. 

So when I was a tiny little boy. 
My Mother's darling and Papa's joy. 
They called me Dearie and Freddie and Ted, 
And hugged me tight when tucked into bed, 
And I learned a prayer all my own so they say. 
That I can repeat even to this day; 
"Dear Father forgive all the bad things I do, 
For I am a baby, and not yet two." 



97 



WHY WORRY? 



Why worry about this ? 

Why worry about that? 

Why wonder what friends ar-e driving at? 

The things they do^ 

The things they say^ 

The trifling happenings, day by day. 

Why think and worry and ponder still 

When you surely know 'Worry ^Slakes You 111. 



Thank Heaven then, for Optimism. 
Avaunt ye patrons of Pessimism. 
What use to worry fine lives away. 
Let all be light of heart and gay. 
Let Merry Laughter ring aloud, 
There's a silver lining to every cloud. 



98 



THE AUTO. 

Just to pass weary hours away, 

I fuss with the Auto, and say — 

One never knows how work does come 

In bunches — to the owner of one; 

'Tis fuss and fiddle, 'most all the time, 

To keep a machine just looking fine. 

When one starts in to wash a car. 
He finds much that his mind does jar; 
Bolts loose here — burrs gone there — 
Radiator leaks that makes him swear — 
Transmission squeaks — and fenders shake — 
And, possibly, some serious break. 

You strip yourself of all decent duds, 
Wash off the grease with pails of suds, 
Turn on the hose and wash away. 
Sticky mixtures of sand and clay; 
Then with a sponge you work like sin. 
Polishing the body with a Chamois skin. 

The brass looks dark like copper stain, 
From being out in a gentle rain. 
So here you labor from noon 'til night. 
Before the brass shines clear and bright ; 
And still there's other work to do 
Before you can dream of being through. 

The Crank Case needs a quart of oil; 
You find that you must adjust the Coil; 
The Grease Cups seem empty too. 
And so you work, 'til black and blue 
From bumps against the burrs and bolts 
Which gives your frame so many jolts. 

'Tis Done— 'Tis Well Done— 'Tis Well— 'Tis Done- 
You exclaim — Erstwhile thinking of the fun 
That will surely come when evening shades 
Are playing in the distant glades ; 
When you spin away in pleasure's quest 
To view the sunset in the far, far west. 



99 



ON AN AUTO RUN. 

What more enjoyable than an auto run. 

When business for the day is done? 

To whirl from City's close confines 

To a place where a river twists and winds, 

There to breathe an air so pure and sweet, 

That your dream life seems quite complete. - 

When hill and dale and woodland scene 
Leaves a plastic mentality quite in a dream ; 
For your senses all. seem alert and clear. 
Appreciate intuitively the beauties near; 
The pleasant odor of New Mown Hay, 
That floats through the air from far away. 

The Rambler Rose — The red and green 
Intermingle in a beautiful color scheme, 
And you dash along in perfect bliss 
As the hill-tops receive the Sun's last kiss; 
Then it dies away in the western sky 
Leaving but a memory — and a sigh. 

The dreamy murmur of rippling rills, 
The soft clear note of Whip-poor-wills ; 
The rustle of the shaking leaves, 
That blow about in a gentle breeze ; 
The far off croaking of the noisy frog 
Comes to the ear from a marsliy bog. 

The farmer's Collie runs out to see 

That your passing is safe and trust-worthy; 

Then sedately returns to his leafy bed 

On the ground, 'neath the roof of tlie wagon shed. 

He had done his duty and it left a spell 

A wish that 'we might do as well.' 

The farm hand plodding along the road, 
To seek the meagre comfort of his abode; 
The ])low horses, which still wringing wet, 
Are resting now ; and do not fret. 
But contently brusli away the flies. 
While the sunset reddens the western skies. 

100 



Then children come running along the street^ 

And their loving Daddy 'most fondly greet. 

Each seeming anxious to demonstrate 

A Love, I love to contemplate. 

A pure affection that knows no ilk, 

Knows naught of cotton clothes nor silk. 

A love no magnates gold could buy, 

A love, to imitate none would try, 

In poverty or wealth 'tis ever the same, 

A natural Heart Love and true to name. 

And it kindles a Hope, instills a fear. 

When I watch a Father fondle children dear. 

A Hope that I may always know. 
This pure heart love that I value so; 
Not live to see children hold aloof, 
Awaiting a sure, a distinctive proof. 
That I am worthy of their childish love 
True as the light from stars above. 

A fear that the children might not chance 
To trust me with perfect confidence ; 
That they could not in certainty trace 
A look of sincerity in my face; 
And intuitively feel that a friend was near. 
And never hesitate from doubt nor fear. 

Then musing deep, far along the way, 
As the shades of night quickly follow day; 
When lamps are lighted and flashing bright. 
Darting pointed shafts far thru the night; 
When one's mind is free to roam 
O'er matters distant or close to home. 

O'er business, social or friendly ties. 
O'er trials of life — the groans and sighs; 
Or to bubble o'er with joy and glee 
When fortune favors with prosperity; 
When faces wreathed in happy smiles, 
Betokens a heart which happiness beguiles. 

And I muse and ponder the hours away. 
O'er this thing or that, occurring today; 
Muse o'er the present, the future, the past; 
O'er friendships I know will surely last; 
These latter are roses among the thorns of life. 
The Balm of Gilead in years of strife. 

101 



For in friendship true, we ever find 

Our greatest liappiness and peace of mind, 

And in after years, with life 'most spent. 

What could afford one greater content 

Than to dream of friendships pure and sweet, 

Leaving naught to add to liappiness complete? 

Those brightest stars in ^lemory's sky, 
Are never forgotten. We strive and try 
To keep their memories ever green, 
A perfect realization of a true, sweet dream ; 
And we live again and again and more, 
With that friend of friends, we knew of yore. 



Thus the auto adds to a generous store; 

And endears Nature to us, more and more — 

And fills our souls with its beauty fair 

As it does our lungs with pure fresh air — 

So love the auto — Ride out and see 

The Beauty God spreads in the far country. 



102 



EVER GIT SKEARED? 

Can you tell me why nerves entangle, 

Twitch and start and draw in pain ? 
When you do your best to strangle 

All the fear, you feel, in vain ? 
When the slightest sound's annoying, 

To the sensitive nerve — or brain, 
When evil spirits seem enjoying. 

The chance to drive you half insane. 

When alone, with darkness looming 

Black and thick, all 'round about. 
When the lights, which had been burning 

Burn quite low, or have gone out; 
When a Crickets' low sad chirping. 

Strikes your ear from 'cross the room. 
Sets your tired nerves to jerking, 

Deepens^ more the dismal gloom. 

When an owl hoots shrill derision. 

At your weaknesses and fear; 
You straighten up in stiff precision 

Wondering what evil lurks so near; 
When a wild wind shakes the shutter. 

Howls its anguish in shrillest tone. 
Starts the sweat, the teeth to chatter. 

Chills the marrow of the bone. 

When the moonbeams, softly dancing. 

Reflects a weird, uncanny light. 
And dark shadows, grotesquely dancing. 

Take on forms which give you fright; ; 
When your eyes are dully staring. 

At some fearful shadowy thing 
Held fear-bound ; and hardly stirring. 

Expecting it to suddenly spring. 

And tho the darkness seems never ending, 

The glorious Sun at last appears; 
And quickly then, your nerves are mending. 

Dissipating shadows and your fears; 
Then you wonder, what dread evil. 

Used your nerves with wicked designs, 
What's in darkness? What the Divvil.^ 

That makes one suffer such fear at times. 



103 



AN INFLICTION 

The day was fair. 
And not a breath of air 
Caressed the Rose leaves 

Spreading a fragrance rare; 
And a burning Sun 
Had dropped asleep, 
Fading away in the distant deep. 

Then the stars came out 
Flashing lights round about, 
While a new born Crescent 

Floated dreamily out; 
And the stilly night 
Heard a mother's croon. 
Quieting her babe with a sweet, old tune. 

Above a dome of blue, 
True, celestial hue. 
Hiding with hazy film. 

The heavens I would view. 
And great quiet reigned 
Whilst from far away. 
Chimes toiled a requiem for the day. 

Then a gentle breeze. 
Whistled tliru the trees, 
Dying with weary moan 

Tossing lazily the withered leaves; 
But again come tlie wind 
In gusts more strong. 
Hurrying the scattered leaves along. 

Tlien a rushing cloud, 
(The Sky's black shroud) 
Threw its sombre cloak 

O'er the earth's great crowd; 
And a hollow rumble. 
Like a warning gong. 
Betokened a storm, was rushing along. 

101 



For the stars o'er head., 
Had now quickly fled, 
And the waning moon 

Its dying radiance shed; 
While the gusty breeze 
Became wild and strong, 
Arching the trees as it dashed alon^,'. 

The rains' sudden dash; 
Now a light'ning flash; 
And a giant Oak 

Falls with a deafening crash ; 
Rain drives in sheets, 
Driven by the gale. 
Changing erstwhile to frozen hail. 

Then the thunder roaring. 
The rain down pouring. 
The skies illumined 

By forked lights soaring; 
As the hurricane blows. 
And the lightnings' play. 
All leaving sorrow by the way. 

So strange and weird 
The black clouds appeared. 
Rushing their ominous course 

Dismal and feared; 
Emblems of evil unknown, 
'Rousing fears of mortal man 
As no other agency can. 

For the thunders' roll 
Tries the stoutest soul. 
As the lightnings' flash 

Takes its awful toll; 
But with deafening roar. 
It passes, to other spheres 
Easing our consciences and fears. 

The wind dies away. 
The skies become gray, 
The storm is spent, 

Gone the lightnings' play; 
Then comes into view 
The moon's crescent red. 
Shining thru rifts in clouds overhead. 

105 



Then the stars come out. 
Flashing lights about. 
And the clouds flee away 

In disorderly rout: 
While the sky once more 
Takes on the hue 
The hue of the celestial azure blue. 

As our storm comes and goes. 
To our weal and our woes. 
But the optimist smiles 

As thru life he goes: 
For why should we wail 
With fear or with doubt? 
When the storm is past then stars come out. 

The storms of life 

And the hard, bitter strife. 

The aches and the pains, 

In our anatomy so rife; 
Makes it hard sometimes 
To muster a smile: 
But I can tell vou. it sure is worth while. 



106 



A SUNNY MARCH MORN* 

Down in the meadow 

Sweet sounds are heard ; 
Down by the running brook, 

Comes the chirp of a bird. 
Down in the meadow, 

Laughing rivulets run ; 
Down in the clearing, 

Whence sweet sounds come. 



Early in the morning, 

Whilst softly you sleep. 
Prior to sunrise. 

Whilst in slumbers so deep. 
Softly and sweetly 

Your soul then is blessed, 
By the song of Spring, 

Of our Robin Red Breast. 



Robin, pretty Robin, 

Come sing loud and long; 
For dearly do I love 

Your pure rippling song. 
Come in the morning. 

The noon or the night, 
Chirping our fears away. 

In notes clear and bright. 



107 



UNDER WRONG IMPRESSION. 

Very calm was her demeanor. 
Nothing could cause a tremor, 
Of surprise to mantle 

Her aristocratic face. 
She tripped in, so daint'ly, 
And enquired so quaint'ly, 
And by asking so naiv'ly 

Who could resist her grace ! 

"A Seidlitz Powder please, sir. 
And a lemon soda too, sir. 
As I am very anxious 

My home to now return," 
The drug clerk, full of knowledge 
And so lately out of college. 
Bowed with the air — 

"I have no more to learn." 

To the lady, upon returning, 
This drug clerk so knowing, 
Passed over the decoction 

He prepared for her that day. 
She drank it most hurriedly. 
Then looking up quite worriedly, 
"Where is my Seidlitz PoAvder.'* 

Bring it quickly, I pray." 

"Why madam" he exclaimed. 
With expression, oh so pained, 
"The Seidlitz in j^our soda 

Was pleasantly prepared." 
"Oil Lord!" slie wildly raved. 
With anger intense displayed, 
"The Seidlitz was for Mother — and — 

I'd slap you if I dared." 



108 



WHY DO I SIGH* 

Why do I sigh? 

'Tis because I dream, 
Of passing things and bye-gone deeds; 
I fancy the future as I know the past, 

And wonder what there remains unseen. 

Why do I sigh? 

'Tis because friends dear, 
Tender their love in times of need; 
Filter a glimmer of purest light 

Thru clouds of sorrow, black and drear. 

Why do I sigh? 

'Tis because of those 
Whose friendship means so much to me. 
And whose every act, with studied care. 

Is balm for all my existing woes. 

Why do I sigh? 

'Tis because I feel, 
(More deeply than even I could tell) 
Delight in knowing and so well. 

My friends are true thru woe or weal. 



109 



THE SEASONS. 

How sweet are the days of springtime, 
Those first few years of life ; 

From which evolves the summer time, 
Then happiness, too, is rife. 

And following on so quickly 

Come the autumn of middle age, 

When all must bow so meekly 
To winter's cold, bleak page. 

Please take the seasons together, 
The few short years we live; 

And 3^ou will find them ever 
Well worth the price we give. 

We have but four short seasons; 

Let us try and use them well ; 
For truest happiness so reasons 

As jnanv a man can tell. 



110 



MY DREAM GIRL* 



My Dream Girl is perfection true^ 

In form and feature^ act and deed; 
Perfection, and if my dreams come true, 

No necessity, her charms, for me, to plead. 
Her figure, so graceful that she seems, 

A willow'y nymph, of spirit born. 
As real, in life, as in my dreams. 

Her wealth of beauty, grace and form. 

And Oh, the Pink of her rosy cheek, 

The alabaster of her brow; 
Her quiet demeanor, oh so meek. 

And I can almost see her now. 
And can hear a faint silvery ripple, 

'Tis her heart-free laugh, I know. 
Can 'most see the darlingest dimple. 

Dent a cheek so flushed and aglow. 

Her pearly teeth in perfect line. 

Oft hidden by lips of cherry hue, 
Which arch away in curves divine. 

So perfect, tempting and so true. 
With lashes dark deepening darker eyes, 

Deepest pools of limpid fire, 
I catch just a glimpse of Paradise, 

Which satisfies my every desire. 

The glossy black of her raven hair, 

Loosely piled in silken sheen; 
In dearest abundance, and so fair 

Its luster dims the moonlight gleam. 
I note her hands quite slim and strong. 

With fingers so delicate and true, 
A hand I'd love to hold quite long, 

I know I would and so would you. 

Ill 



She comes when a drowsy tinkle tells 

Of cow-herds coming in from fields. 
As twiliglit falls, and CiirfeM' bells 

Toll softly while, my mind to slumber yields. 
She comes in all her loveliness then. 

And sits beside my homely bed. 
She strokes my hair softly and again. 

Which takes the pain from out my head. 

She parts those cherry lips so dear. 

And hums a lullaby, soft and low; . 
And my heart beats time, so loud, I fear^ 

She'll be sore afraid, and maybe, go. 
Then I lie so still and still my heart. 

And listen in rapture to her song. 
Drinking the sweetness it doth impart. 

As minutes swiftly glide along. 

Dreaming I But Ah. what wond'rous bliss 

To awake in ecstacies I feel right now; 
Feeling the moisture of a long drawn kiss. 

The Dream Girl imprinted upon my brow. 
Then to close my eyes and picture fair. 

The dearest face God ever moulded true. 
A memory so sweet and as truly rare 

As the solitude and peace in which it grew. 



112 



A PECULIAR BUSINESS* 

Every man has some work to do, 

At which he is usually clever, 
Possibly not profitable, yea that's true, 

Tho its accomplishment is his endeavor. 
Many men may aim very high indeed 

As have many whom you have met. 
But some men never will succeed, 

Unless 'tis — rolling a cigarette. 

Some rich, some poor, the fat and lean. 

The hale and hearty, sick and wan. 
Work at this business, it would seem. 

Beginning work at the break of dawn. 
So adept are they from application, 

To the strangest business one can get. 
All building up fortune and reputation, 

Rolling and smoking — the cigarette. 

Holding it daintily in the fingers, 

A dream of comfort and sweet repose, 
A memory, So Sweet, it clearly lingers, 

'Long as the smell clings to your clothes. 
Oh what comfort in that inhalation ! 

Bliss — That you never can forget. 
Until once you smell the exhalation. 

The smoke of the dear little — Cigarette. 

'Tis sad to think of the lonely one. 

Toiling through the livelong day. 
Laboring under heat of a boiling sun, 

With no moments for rest nor play. 
Toiling, and with finger tips so brown, 

Stained — But still with no regrets. 
He — Strenuous laborer in every town. 

So Busy — Rolling countless Cigarettes. 

113 



His eyes are red with lids that twitch, 

And with muscles, flabby rolls of fat, 
He does one thing without a hitch, 

A thing you've often wondered at. 
He takes the tissue, straw of rice. 

He's working at his sole business yet, 
Deftly rolls the makings, and in a trice, 

Inliales the smoke of a^ — Cigarette. 

Rich or poor man, honest or thief, 

Boss or employee — merchant, clerk, 
Yankee, foreigner, and Indian chief, 

All classes and kindred are in this work. 
Aristocrat, Noble, the rank and file. 

Faithfully toiling and without regret, 
The proud and humble, respectable and vile. 

All consuming the insidious Cigarette. 

Tho He's nervous, irritable, sallow, pale, 

He toils on without a rest. 
His labors seem of but small avail 

As he gains no headway in his quest. 
Uses tongue for paste brush — Saliva for glue, 

Rice paper and makings, why fret.^ 
Nothing else matters, for these will do 

For the rolling of — A cigarette. 

Virulent narcotic to blood and brain. 

As treacherous as the morphine pill. 
Breeding degeneracy in the strain. 

While humanity fights every otlier ill. 
Deadly as is Typhoid or Tetanus, 

Dead'ning the mind to any chance regret, 
In the Business of some men 'round about us. 

Rolling and smoking the Cigarette. 



114 



THE LAND OF MAKE-BELIEVE* 

Oh for that land of pure delight^ 

That I knew long^ long ago, 
A land that never had a night, 

For 'twas always light, you know. 
Where Fairies darted here and there, 

And with their wands, would weave. 
The prettiest gowns for me to wear, 

In the land of make-believe. 

The lovely land of the story book. 

So beautiful with flowers and ferns. 
And a pretty little running brook. 

For which my heart still yearns. 
The skies were such a lovely blue. 

Dotted with stars that never leave, 
I miss it all, now please, don't you .^ 

The land of make-believe. 

The Goblins wandering in the wood. 

Where they were wont to play, 
Were never bad but always good, 

For it was ever as light as day. 
So darkness never made me cry, 

Or hide my face in my sleeve, 
For there's never a tear, or groan or sigh 

In the land of make-believe 

We treasure a jewel of a Memory dear, 

In the dreams of long ago, 
The tales 'were true' (though often queer) 

At least I believed them so. 
As I listened there at Mother's knee. 

While she, a story, would weave. 
Of the dearest place I could hope to see, 
The land of make-believe. 

115 



Mother, dear Mother, I can see her yet, 

With a smile a 'lighting her face, 
Telling the stories I can't forget, 

Of that loveh', enchanted place. 
And now, altho my hair is gray. 

And my heart at times will grieve, 
I close my eyes and again will play 

In the land of make-believe 

I sit again in the dim twilight. 

As firelight dispels the gloom, 
And watch the coals alive and bright. 

In the fireplace of the sitting room. 
Where Mother would rock by the open fire, 

iVnd she no one would deceive, 
And tell me stories of the place so fair. 

The land of make-believe. 

No more will she call me to her knee, 

I'll never hear her stories more. 
For centuries ago, it seems to me. 

She passed to a fairer shore. 
And now, I'm sure her eyes are bright, 

And that she has no cause to grieve. 
In the Fairy land, her steps are light, 

In tlie land of make-believe. 

I long for the stories of years ago 

(The realities of childhood days) 
That Mother told so soft and low. 

With her dear old fashioned ways. 
And now I'm sure that all is riglit, 

And that she has no cause to grieve, 
For all is peaceful, happy and bright, 

In tlie land of make-believe. 



116 



EPILOGUE. 

Greeting to tliee^ oh friend of mine, 
Who exhibits an interest still in rhyme — ■ 
Who dares to glance among or through 
An unknown author's verses new. 
Braving public opinion at an age 
When Poesy certainly is not the rage, 
And I trust my thoughts, herein, atone 
For all the temerity I have shown. 



1]7 



IVIAY 31 1913 



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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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018 394 003 A 



